Abroad with the Jimmies eBook

My own tones were so conversational when I said, “Will
you please show me your black satin ribbon?”
that, while I did not say it, my voice implied such
questions as “How are your father and mother?”
and “I hope the baby is better?” and “Doesn’t
that draught there on your back annoy you?”
and “Don’t you get very tired standing
up all day?”

It was Bee, as usual, who gave me my first lesson
in the insolent bearing which alone obtains the best
results from the average British shopman.

Still without having thoroughly asserted myself, not
having been to that particular manner born, I went
next to Paris, where my politeness met with the just
reward which virtue is always supposed to get and seldom
does.

I consider shopping in Paris one of the greatest pleasures
to be found in this vale of tears. The shops,
with the exception of the Louvre, the Bon Marche,
and one or two of the large department stores of similar
scope, are all small—­tiny, in fact, and
exploit but one or two things. A little shop
for fans will be next to a milliner who makes a specialty
of nothing but gauze theatre bonnets. Perhaps
next will come a linen store, where the windows will
have nothing but the most fascinating embroidery,
handkerchiefs, and neckware. Then comes the man
who sells belts of every description, and parasol
handles. Perhaps your next window will have such
a display of diamond necklaces as would justify you
in supposing that his stock would make Tiffany choke
with envy, but if you enter, you will find yourself
in an aperture in the wall, holding an iron safe,
a two-by-four show-case, and three chairs, and you
will find that everything of value he has, except
the clothes he wears, are all in his window.

As long as these shops are all crowded together and
so small, to shop in Paris is really much more convenient
than in one of our large department stores at home,
with the additional delight of having smiling interested
service. The proprietor himself enters into your
wants, and uses all his quickness and intelligence
to supply your demands. He may be, very likely
he is, doubling the price on you, because you are an
American, but, if your bruised spirit is like mine,
you will be perfectly willing to pay a little extra
for politeness.

It is a truth that I have brought home with me no
article from Paris which does not carry with it pleasant
recollections of the way I bought it. Can any
woman who has shopped only in America bring forward
a similar statement?

All this changes, however, when once you get into
the clutches of the average French dressmaker.
By his side, Barabbas would appear a gentleman of
exceptional honesty. I have often, in idle moments,
imagined myself a cannibal, and, in preparing my daily
menu, my first dish would be a fricassee of French
dressmakers. Perhaps in that I am unjust.
In thinking it over, I will amend it by saying a fricassee
of all dressmakers. It would be unfair
to limit it to the French.